


i wear kevlar like it's lingerie (and keep your pocketsquares close to my heart)

by MulaSaWala



Series: In Any Other World [2]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Bodyguard Romance, Collection: In Any Other World, F/F, Gen, Harold being a little shit, Harold gets sick, Harold is ridiculously wealthy, John gets worried, Long-Suffering John, M/M, Orphans, Protective John, Protective John Reese, bodyguard John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2018-08-22 14:03:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8288332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MulaSaWala/pseuds/MulaSaWala
Summary: John had never met anyone who needed a bodyguard quite as badly as Harold Crane. It was a bit surreal that he didn't have an entire team of them.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> These are in no particular order unless stated otherwise.

John sometimes wondered who Mark Snow had pissed off in upper management to get himself and his team assigned to this case. It was routine recon, just making sure there would be no surprises. It was the CIA equivalent of paperwork. Not that John minded; going undercover in the military wasn't exactly hard, and it was a relief after all that wetwork. But after being assigned as Harold Crane's security detail, John almost missed Kara. She was cruel, but predictable. Crane was pretty much the opposite.

 

"Mr. Randall, are you certain that you wouldn't prefer to sit down?" Crane patted the space beside him on the bench. From anyone else, it would have registered as a come on. From Crane, it was a simple expression of concern. "I think I have a bottle of water in my bag somewhere, and I'm sure the medic will be here soon."

 

John resisted the urge to grit his teeth and politely declined. Again. It was ridiculous, _this man_ was fucking ridiculous. John wanted to shake him until he understood that this was a dangerous place, _the whole world_ was a dangerous place, and if he wasn't careful he was going to get himself killed.

 

Instead of behaving like a normal pencil pusher sent by his superiors into an unstable region in the Middle East, Crane had (somehow) slipped his escort after a meeting he'd had earlier today and gone walking around. Alone. After a frantic half hour of searching, John had found him with some random kid, the two of them trying to coax out a stray dog that had become trapped under some barbed wire. He had refused to leave until the dog was safe, so John had needed to crawl in there to free it, getting a few scratches on his back and arms for his trouble.

Crane had been dismayed upon seeing the scratches and, after using a handkerchief to wipe away blood from the areas with exposed skin, insisted that they wait for medical assistance. John had briefly considered telling Crane that he'd had lovers that had scratched his back worse than this, but he had figured that Crane might have fainted and there had been a kid present (because _of course_ the kid was still present, "We can't let a minor walk around unaccompanied, Mr. Randall!" _dear god_ ). John decided he would look for her parents, but only _after_ getting Crane back to his nice safe hotel room.

The kid had pet the (largely unscathed) dog while Crane had held the bloodied handkerchief gingerly and looked around. It had taken John a moment to realize that Crane had been _looking for a trash bin_. John had inwardly sighed and silently held out his hand, quickly pocketing the ruined piece of cloth. It had felt soft and luxurious in his calloused hands. John thought that it was probably worth more than his gun. John had eyed the man's expensive looking suit and guessed that the amount of money it had cost Crane could probably outfit a couple of platoons completely. 

 

 _'His cane definitely could,'_ John thought. It was black, propped up against the bench, and it had the look of discreet wealth to it, like an Omega watch, not a Cartier.

 

John noted that Crane's suit had been immaculate this morning, but now the knees were all scuffed up, and there was tear in the right sleeve.

John had parked Crane and the kid ("Her name is Amira, Mr. Randall, say hello.") on a nearby bench, before calling in for backup and a medic (because Crane had insisted, and now the medic was going to laugh at John for calling in because of a few scratches, he just knew it).

 

Now here they were. John waited, standing at attention, mentally prepping himself for the dressing down he was about to get from his SO for losing Crane. (John wasn't worried about the CIA, Snow would probably just tell him he was losing his touch, then offer him some awful Polish alcohol.) 

John did his best to ignore Crane chatting with the kid in a mix of English and Arabic (John was surprised Crane knew Arabic). John also did his best to ignore the damned dog that was still there, sitting happily at Crane's feet. The kid scratched behind the dog's ears.

A bottle of water tapped John's arm a few minutes later. John took a couple of sips, more for Crane's benefit than anything else, before handing the bottle back.

It wasn't long before two up-armored Humvees rounded a corner and entered John's line of sight, kicking up dust behind them. The Humvees pulled up in front of John and the first door to open had a man in combat medic uniform behind it. He ran straight for the kid, pulling her into his arms while speaking in rapid Arabic, too fast for John to catch.

 

"It appears that Amira is his daughter, Mr. Randall," Crane murmured to John. "Dr. Madani is the best surgeon in Tekrit, and he's very happy that his child was with us and has come to no harm."

 

Crane moved to stand in front of John as the rest of the escort approached. John was surprised to see that Crane only came up to his chin. Crane had seemed taller. Dr. Madani, daughter's hand held firmly, motioned for John to get into a Humvee. 

Did Madani want him to leave Crane? John shook his head no. Crane did his painful looking half-body turn to nod permission at him and before John could think about it, he was following Dr. Madani to the vehicle. They left before any words could be exchanged between Crane and John's SO.

By the time Madani was done looking John over (and as John had expected, his back had what amounted to a few papercuts and nothing more), everyone was returning to the vehicles. No one appeared angry and Crane's dog had followed him into the car where John sat. The soldier that had driven the Humvee they were currently in rode in the other vehicle, so Dr. Madani took the wheel while John rode shotgun. In the back, Crane and the kid continued to talk, petting and scratching the dog between them.

 

"You were following the kid, weren't you?" John said, becuase he had to be sure. "You left the _secure military zone_ because she told you about the dog and you knew she was going for it."

 

Everyone in the back seat of the Humvee seemed to freeze. Even the dog. John thought that was funny. Apparently, so did Dr. Madani because he snorted in laughter.

 

"You found Harold in half an hour, soldier. The last one always took at least two." Madani took his eyes off the road for a second to give John a quick smile. "Looks like you're a keeper."

 

John looked at Crane through the rear view mirror. He was studiously staring out the window now, his cheeks and the tops of his ears tinged slightly pink. John couldn't help but notice that his hand was still petting the dog. John looked down at his own hands. Less than a week ago, John had used them to break someone's neck, because using a gun would have been too loud and too messy. And he had been sick of cleaning up blood. Kara had approved.

Someday soon, he'd have to leave this cover, and go back to being a killer. But for now he would protect this ridiculous man, who watched over children, had ruined his very expensive suit for a dog, and then fussed over his very expendable bodyguard.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set a bit farther in the future. John and Harold are back in the US.

Lionel Fusco had eight hundred sixty-two days left on his sentence. He marked the days down in a little notebook that his son had given him, the jacket covered with doodles of robots and dinosaurs. He counted down his days left before he slept. On good days, he didn't reach zero. On bad ones, he'd go through it twice before giving up on sleep.

 

"Is this him?" A voice spoke outside his cell. Fusco startled.

 

It was the middle of the night; visiting hours were over. And even then, visitors weren't allowed into the cells. But the guard was opening Fusco's cell, stepping aside to let the man in. He sat down on the empty bunk across from Fusco's, stared at him, and Lionel spared a moment to be thankful that he hadn't taken the opportunity of being between cellmates to masturbate.

Fusco sat up, feeling underdressed in a pair shorts and a shirt. Mr. Tall Dark and Menacing was rocking a three piece suit that Fusco wouldn't have been able to afford at the height of his career in HR.

 

"Look buddy, you're in the wrong cell. I don't got nothing, don't know nothing. I'm out."

 

"I know."  The man in a suit said. He was silent for a minute and Fusco started sweating. Then he leaned forward and Fusco could feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

 

"I'm not interested in who you were working for, _Lionel_. I'm interested in _you_."

 

_'Ah,'_ Fusco thought. There was always a chance he'd die in prison. He'd just always figured that if it happened, it would be as collateral at a riot, not at the hands of some overpriced hitman who... wasn't done talking.

 

"You could have been in and out in 18 months if you'd given up your friend Officer Stills," Fusco stiffened in alarm, "But instead you kept your mouth shut. Why?"

 

Fusco kept his mouth shut.

 

"You've got more loyalty then sense, Lionel." Hitman smiled in a way that made Fusco aggressively uncomfortable. He got up and extended a hand, which Fusco shook hesitantly. Then he left.

 

"You can call me John. I'll be in touch."

 

\---

 

Lionel Fusco walked out of prison a free man, eight hundred and sixty days early. He wasn't surprised to see Mr. Happy waiting for him.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back in time, back to Tekrit.

"Your new bodyguard is from _the CIA_?" Nathan's voice came out of the laptop's subpar speakers. It was the tone he used when he was trying very hard not to yell and was yelling anyway.

 

Harold's mouth twitched up at the corners before he could smooth out his expression, and it made Nathan turn even redder. It would have been funny, (it _was_ funny, Harold decided) and Harold would have been happy to let his friend sputter incoherently for a few more minutes, but they were on a schedule and Harold's amusement could wait.

 

"We haven't attracted undue attention, Nathan, John Randall is one agent from a team of three on routine surveillance." Harold said, "I've obtained his fingerprints, and vetted him thoroughly; he won't be any trouble."

 

" _Harold,_ " Nathan narrowed his eyes at his friend, and this time Harold let the smile remain on his face. "You've said those exact words before, and we're _still_ dealing with...things."

 

Harold had the good grace to look remorseful, even if they both knew that it was complete horseshit. Nathan sighed.

 

"All right, we'll circle back to that," Oh, they _would_ , Nathan would make sure of it; he was like a relentless blond pitbull about things like this "Tell me about breaking ground at the hospital. I've got a team of college interns here chomping at the bit to ship out." And they conversed from there.

 

Harold knew he could have conveyed all the relevant information in an email, in spreadsheet after spreadsheet of data, but Harold liked speaking to Nathan. His familiar face on Harold's laptop screen was a great comfort. Harold didn't like being away from New York; he missed his collection of hidey-holes, his library, his small circle of friends.

 

 _'Although,'_ Harold thought, _'My time here has been unexpectedly enjoyable.'_

 

Indeed, the highlight of his trip thus far had been his beleaguered chaperone, Mr. Randall. Harold would feel bad for the man, he really would, but regardless of the fact that sometimes avoiding detection was necessary due to certain activities requiring discretion, evading the man was just plain _entertaining_. It was like playing hide and seek.

And aside from being a good sport, the man was kind as well, which Harold hadn't expected him to be based on his file. Of his own volition, Mr. Randall had searched for the dog's owner. Harold wasn't familiar with dog breeds, and had thought that the dog was simply a stray with some German Shepherd in him, but Mr. Randall had seen that the dog was actually a Belgian Malinois, very rare and very valuable.

As it turned out, the dog (named Bear) had run away from his new handler, which made him useless for military work. Harold had only needed to hint that he would like to keep the dog and someone had presented him with ownership papers. Bear was now quite attached to Harold , which the bespectacled man thought curious because it had been Mr. Randall who had freed him. And walked him. And bathed him. And generally did all the upkeep Bear required. 

 

"--arold, are you listening?" Nathan was saying, and Harold realized that he had been silent for some time now. He checked his watch. 28 minutes.

 

"Nathan, I have to go, I'll send you the rest of the data later today." Harold shut the laptop and arranged himself so that he was facing the door.

 

A minute later there was a scratch at the door, and Mr. Randall promptly burst in, Bear on his tail and gun ready.

 

"You've shaved a whole minute off your time, Mr. Randall." Harold didn't move from his seat, legs crossed primly. "Congratulations."

 

Mr. Randall cleared the room then lowered his gun, switching on the safety. He approached carefully, like Harold was going to bite, which was ridiculous. Harold had always thought of himself as physically harmless, by disposition mostly, and _certainly_ to someone with military training and a gun.

Bear had no such compunctions, rushing at Harold before stopping to sit at his feet, tail wagging rapidly. Harold scratched him behind the ears, making Bear wriggle in ecstasy. Mr. Randall looked down at the canine with betrayal written plainly on his face. Harold struggled to suppress a smile.

 

"Your dog missed you, Mr. Crane. And your presence has been requested by Dr. Madani for lunch." Mr. Randall's chiding tone indicated that, like the good doctor, Mr. Randall had noticed Harold's tendency to work through meals.

 

"Very well," Harold sighed, "Lead the way, Mr. Randall. Come along, Bear."

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are some potentially triggering things in this chapter, like human trafficking and drug cartels, but nothing is described too graphically, and i like to think it all turns out okay? Please read carefully, i guess.

Mr. Crane had no meetings scheduled today. John had known this yesterday, and had turned in as soon as Crane had retreated into his room for the night, looking forward to spending the next day whiling away time with his favorite charge. But at 5 in the morning, a knock roused John from sleep. He was wide awake in an instant, grabbing his Sig from under his pillow and rushing to the door. Had Crane gone missing again?

No, he hadn't, because here Crane was, waking up John before the sun had risen and looking like death warmed over. John didn't get to voice his concern because Crane started speaking as soon as the door was open.

 

"Good Morning, Mr. Randall. I'm afraid there's been a slight change to my schedule."

 

\---

 

Crane had been asleep since they left the hotel. John had driven a car (that Crane had procured from seemingly out of nowhere) to a surveillance dead zone, where they had been picked up by a man in a small, one-engine Cessna plane.

The pilot introduced himself to John as Michael Cahill in english. Male, American accent, clean shaven, John noted. Not military. The sleeve of his shirt rode up as he turned in his seat to greet Crane, revealing part of a tattoo that John instantly recognized. It was the one that marked Ayub Afridi's lieutenants.

John was immediately on high alert. Did Crane know who was flying the plane? Based on the familiar nod and quick quirk of the lips, it appeared that they were more than passing acquaintances. Crane fell asleep again almost before they had taken off.

John swallowed a wave of disappointment. There was absolutely nothing surprising about the fact that an extremely wealthy business man was involved in the Middle East opium trade.

The flight to Afghanistan took over three hours. The sun was well above the horizon by the time they touched down near a small village in Kabul. Crane woke up as the plane descended, and John could feel Crane's entire demeanor changing. He wondered if he was about to see the real Harold Crane.

Cahill and John got off the plane, Crane remaining inside.

 

"Let me take the lead, yeah? This'll be over soon enough." Cahill said, rolling up his sleeves, the tattoo on his forearm in full view. John nodded tightly and Cahill clapped him on the shoulder before handing him an Uzi. Cahill himself shouldered an AK-47 and picked up a plain black suitcase before turning back to the Cessna, opening the door for Crane.

 

"You ready to go, boss?"

 

John hardly recognized the man who stepped out of the plane, leaning heavily on his cane. He had Crane's face, was wearing Crane's clothes, but it was as if there was a different man inhabiting Crane's body right now. Menace radiated from the man, making the hair on the back of John's neck stand on on end.

The three of them walked to a high end jeep, riding it to a small stadium. John's heart dropped. He knew what happened in places like these. People were leaving the stadium, and John felt a guilty relief that it was already over as he and Cahill escorted Crane inside.

Cahill led the three of them to the middle of the stadium where a group of men stood talking, and John very carefully did not look at the contents of a nearby pickup truck. Stonings were common in this area.

Cahill greeted the men in Pashto, which unlike Arabic, John could understand. He felt a little shocked as Cahill implied that Crane wanted to get in on the man's child prostitution ring. He brandished the carrying case in his hands, opening it to reveal an obscene amount money.

They were escorted by convoy to an orphanage, and John could feel a cold rage settling over him. There was a truck idling in front of it, a twenty-two wheeler outfitted to take livestock to market. A woman in US Army fatigues sat smoking in the driver's seat. Crane walked straight into the dilapitated building, motioning for Cahill and John to remain outside.

At this point Cahill took the lead again, ushering the men away by implying that Crane might like to 'sample the wares in private'. John's hands clenched into fists.

 

"You new here, soldier?" The woman on the truck asked him. John exhaled, forcing himself to relax before turning to her.

 

"Yeah, I'm new. Is it that obvious?" He nodded to her, "I'm John."

 

"Carter," She snubbed out the cigarette into the truck's ashtray, then reached down to shake his hand.

 

By this time, the men from the stadium were gone and Cahill was walking towards them. John noted that he still had the briefcase full of money in his hand. Cahill and Carter spoke to each other like old friends, smiling, and John felt sick to his stomach.

John motioned that he was going to go check on Crane. Carter and Cahill waved him away and kept chatting.

Inside the building was much cooler, the sun having risen to its zenith outside. John tread silently, avoiding notice. He snuck past the room filled with children, searching for the room Crane was in.

 

"--had to let him, Mr. Ostrich." A voice said in accented english. John didn't bat an eye at the alias. "If I didn't, he comes back, takes ten children for the same amount." The voice took a shaky breath.

 

John peeked in, trusting the shadows to keep him from sight. Crane, the one John knew, looked concerned as the man in front of him visibly gathered his bearings.

 

"I let him take one last week, now she's back, _alhamdulila_ , and I use the money to feed the rest. More arrived just yesterday, I couldn't--"

 

"I understand, Mr. Farid." Crane said, and John seethed. "I trust that you received my missive? Are you and the children ready to go?"

 

"Yes. _Yes_. I-- _Barakah Allah_ , Mr. Ostrich." The man left the room, in too much of a hurry to notice John hiding in the shadows. John wasted no time. He had Crane by the throat before the man knew he was in the room.

 

John didn't press down on Crane's airway. Something unknown stayed his hand, made him hesitate. He would have snapped anyone else's neck by now, but a part of himself that John hated wanted to see the fear in Crane's eyes, wanted Crane to see the betrayal in his.

But Crane was exceedingly calm.

 

"I'm sorry for not being more forthcoming sooner, Mr. Randall. I was made aware of the situation a few days ago," Crane explained. "And I'm afraid I haven't had a chance to rest since then."

 

"Don't tell Dr. Madani," he added.

 

Crane outlined a plan to bring the children to US soil, to be kept safe and cared for by a friend until Crane himself could return and oversee them going to good families, good homes. John didn't believe him. It would have been better to kill the bastards responsible.

 

"It would have been very easy for me, Mr. Randall, to pay someone to kill someone else." Crane said quietly.

 

"But I decided a long time ago that, while I think it's very honorable to try to keep bad things from happening, I would rather make sure that good things happened." Crane's eyes had become very soft as he spoke. Crane put a hand on John's arm gently, carefully.

 

It was almost too much. John suddenly felt like he was choking, drowning in the blood of all the people he'd killed. This good man he had almost killed. They were still in the same room; hardly five minutes had passed, but John felt a little like he was looking at the world with fresh eyes. Crane had apologized for not having told John the plan sooner, that he had trusted John would trust _him_ until he could.

 

John slowly removed his hands from Crane, who kept hold of his arm.

 

"There are 289 children in this building, Mr. Randall, right now on their way to a better life. They will have you to thank." John nearly flinched at Crane's tone, unused to such kindness, but he did cover Crane's hand with his, clinging to it like a lifeline.

 

\---

 

John emerged from the building with Crane to find the children already crammed into the truck. Crane was distressed at seeing how crowded it was, maybe he hadn't known that there would be this many, but John could see from their faces that they were used to worse.

The two of them rode in the jeep with Mr. Farid, far into the desert, until the village was out of sight. Cahill consulted a GPS device, explaining that they needed a stretch of relatively flat solid ground in order to take off.

 

 _'Take off with what?_ _'_ John wondered, because they had passed the Cessna awhile back.

 

John should have known that Crane had one more surprise in him, because as they rounded a large sand dune, an Airbus A380 slowly came into view. It was huge.

 

 _'Capacity of 800,'_ John thought to himself a bit disbelievingly.

 

Everyone disembarked from their respective vehicles, staring at the plane. The children headed straight for the plane's enormous wheels, and John tamped down on the urge to tell them not to play there because it was dangerous. The plane wasn't even idling, it was perfectly safe.

 

"I've got to hand it to you, Harold. You go big," Carter said, shaking her head. John could _hear_ her smiling.

 

A man descended from the plane, taking the steps two at a time. He went straight for Crane, and John instinctively put Crane behind him, moving to stand in the man's way. Beside them, Cahill snickered into his hand.

 

"At ease there, Randall. It's just Joey."

 

Indeed, the the man was really more of a boy, fresh faced and smiling as he held out a hand for John. He introduced himself as Joey Durban, he was a pilot, wasn't it great to be part of such an awesome rescue operation, such a shame it had to be hush-hush.

John felt a bit dizzy at his energy.

Beside them, Mr. Farid had managed to gather the children. Crane turned to him.

 

"I'm afraid this is as far as I go, Mr. Farid. My associate will take you to America, and I shall see you in a few weeks."

 

Farid looked at the plane with apprehension. Joey said his goodbyes, shaking everyone's hand again, and headed back to the plane. He beckoned to the children, who stayed where they were. The sun was beginning to set.

John was just beginning to wonder if they would have to physically force the children to board (the thought left an awful taste in his mouth) when two women emerged from the plane.

Crane brightened up visibly.

 

"Dr. Enright, Mrs. Enright, I was under the impression that you would be welcoming the plane, not on it." Crane said as the women hugged him hello.

 

"Maddie and Amy, Harold, how many times do we have to tell you?" The woman in doctor's scrubs said, smiling. "Your plane is _insane_ , by the way."

 

The blonde woman she arrived with with was speaking to Farid, introducing herself as Amy. She smiled as a small Hazara girl tugged on her dress, asking in Pashto if she could touch her hair. Farid translated and Amy crouched down, letting the children tug softly on the golden strands.

The action seemed to make the children more comfortable. Some of them approached Durban, asking questions about the plane. Carter and Cahill translated for them. John gave his phone (nothing sensitive on it, but it had Candy Crush) to a little girl who wanted to hold his Uzi.

Even Crane was not safe, and his expensive cane was soon being brandished as a sword. They were almost festive, standing around in the shadow of the A380. But soon the temperature started to drop, and the children were slowly herded onto the plane. John could hear muted screams of delight as they played inside. He did not envy the four adults that would have to get them all to settle down before taking off.

As soon as the plane's door closed, Carter bid them goodbye. She hugged Crane before she drove off in the truck. John had a feeling he'd be seeing her again.

John helped Crane into the jeep (his cane having boarded the plane with the children) before getting in himself. In the relative privacy of the vehicle, Crane's composure crumpled. He looked exhausted. John resisted the urge to lean Crane against him, to offer his support.

 

"You okay, boss?" Cahill asked from the driver's seat, looking at them through the rearview mirror.

 

"Just tired," Crane said lightly, before leaning back as far as his fused spine would allow and promptly falling asleep. If John arranged him soon after that to take the the pressure off his neck, no one but Cahill and John would ever know. And if, instead of waking him in order to switch vehicles, John simply carried the sleeping Crane to the Cessna, no one had to know that either.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this got dark.
> 
> But I just wanted to illustrate the difference between Crane and Canon Finch. Finch built the machine to prevent another 9-11. Crane went for the source, trying to remove the unrest that bred terrorists in the first place? I dunno, i'm not a foreign relations expert.
> 
> In canon, Mike Cahill was the cop trying to track down LOS. Here, he's still in the smuggling business, but he smuggles other things. He still wants to take down the drug cartels though.
> 
> Joey Durban was the army vet turned bank robber. He's still enlisted here, and Harold often asks him to help out in situations like this.
> 
> Also, I know some people headcanon that John really like Finch's "I'm the boss" voice (like he used for Mr. Egret), and honestly I do too, but I think finding something attractive can have a lot to do with context. In the case of Harold's I-Am-Scary voice, there's a difference between hearing it when you've known him for years and know that he is a fundamentally decentperson, and when you're hearing it from someone you may like but do not know very well and has very recently done some questionable things.
> 
> Lastly, please know that everything I know about the Middle East is from google. I don't intend to offend or disparage anyone, and if i did, i'm very sorry and i would appreciate being told what it was that i did or wrote so that i can avoid it in the future.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set before the whole orphans thing.

"Mr. Randall, I have something for you," Harold said in lieu of a greeting.

 

The sun beat down on them mercilessly, hanging at its zenith in the sky. Mr. Randall was was visibly weary from the combined heat of the desert and his military issue combat gear. Harold himself was faring little better, his bespoke suit soaked through with sweat. Mr. Randall cleared the area as he usually did, giving no sign that he had heard Harold until the alley they were in was as secure as a cursory check could make it.

 

"You have to stop doing this, Mr. Crane. I can't protect you if I don't know where you are." Mr. Randall clicked the safety on and holstered his firearm as he approached Harold.

 

"I'm perfectly fine, Mr. Randall," Harold goaded, feeling completely safe now that the taller man was here.

 

Mr. Randall's right eye twitched just once, before he could smooth out his face into a carefully neutral expression. Harold rather thought that it was only his need to maintain his cover that prevented Mr. Randall from throttling him right now. 

Harold agreed, honestly. Slipping away from Mr. Randall was entertaining when they were in a relatively secure area; it seemed unwise when they were not. But, as always, discretion was the order of the day, and Harold's contact would only meet Harold if he were alone. 

From his place at Harold's feet, Bear wagged his tail, happy as always to see Mr. Randall. Perhaps he had been a bit foolhardy, Harold thought, but he hadn't been foolish. The bespectacled man had brought Bear with him, and played up his injury by leaning heavily on his new cane to cover the canine's presence. The person Harold had met had hardly given Bear a glance, clad as he was in his service vest.

 

 _'It was a risk well worth it,'_ Harold decided. Mr. Randall was subtly looking him over now, checking for injuries upon Harold's person before turning his attention to the package at Harold's feet beside Bear. Harold started to bend over to pick it up, but Mr. Randall beat him to it. He hefted the moderately heavy box on one shoulder and gestured for Harold to precede him out of the alleyway . 

 

"This is for me?" Mr. Randall asked. "What is it?"

 

"It's an experimental graphene composite fabric, Mr. Randall," Harold replied. "It's supposed to be stronger and lighter than Kevlar. I have a few meetings coming up that take place outside of the military base and I thought you'd be more comfortable in a suit, given their formal nature, so I thought I'd sew you a thin vest made from it."

 

He began walking towards the mouth of the aĺley, trusting Mr. Randall to command Bear to take point while he brought up the rear, but Mr. Randall did not follow. Harold turned back to him, squinting in the noonday sun, confusion on his face.

 

"Mr. Randall?"

 

Mr. Randall just stood there, looking back with an inscrutable expression on his face. They looked at each other for a beat before Mr. Randall hurriedly put the box down and fumbled for something in his pocket that he held out to Harold, who walked back, curious, accepting the object with bemusement.

 

"It's sunblock," Mr. Randall said, stating the obvious. Yes, Harold could see that. "I just-- you're starting to burn." He gestured to his own face, and Harold could feel himself coloring.

 

But Mr. Randall wasn't done. He pulled an unsightly cloth hat from a pocket of his pack, placing it carefully on Harold's head. It looked ridiculous, but it would keep the sun off the top of Harold's head.

Oh dear, Harold knew he didn't tan; he just turned red as a lobster. He had been anticipating some minor discomfort later today, when he realized that outdoors meant out in the open under the sun. Mr. Randall was lucky, to have skin that tanned evenly. And very kind, to have noticed Harold's predicament and taken action. Harold began to apply the sunblock.

It was strangely intimate, to be standing there silently together as Harold dabbed the cream onto his exposed skin. From the corner of his eye, Harold could see that Mr. Randall was looking in every direction but Harold's. 

 

_'Probably eager to return to the rest of the convoy.'_

 

Harold bit back a sigh. Mr. Randall must think him a bit softheaded. Wandering alone in a dangerous area, forgetting to put on basic necessities such as sunblock and a hat. They were in a  _desert,_ for goodness' sake. Harold would be lucky to return stateside with no carcinoma. 

Harold finished, holding the tube of sunblock out. That caught Mr. Randall's attention. He finally stopped surveying their surroundings and looked at Harold, who wondered if Mr. Randall had bothered to apply some. He was looking a bit red himself. 

 

"Keep it," he said, shaking his head. Mr. Randall bent down to pick up the box again as Harold whistled for Bear ("Bear,  _vooruit,_ "), and the three of them left the alleyway. 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just some fluffy fluff fluff. How cute are these two!?


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not my fave chapter, but I wanted to get into the swing of things again.

Jacob Salazar (Jack, to his friends), was proud of being in the Navy. With an "Enlisted Sailor of the Year" and a "Superior Performance" award for his service, he thought he was pretty good at his job.

 

("Good Morning, Mr. Salazar. My name is Harold Crane. This is my associate, John Randall, and this is Bear.")

 

But apparently, not good enough, if his CO was assigning him to babysitting duty. At first he had been confused, because the suit already had protection from the army, but over the next few days, it was made clear to him why his presence was necessary (or unnecessary, really). The suit was apparently some small fry at a big tech company that the top brass wanted to impress (some business involving computers that went right over Jack's head), so they were putting on a little show for him, giving him a CPO when he wasn't at risk.

Jack didn't mind. Mr. Crane wasn't uptight about protocol, and it gave Jack a welcome break from his regular duties. Based on the horror stories he'd heard from his friends about the type of Big Business guy that usually did business with the US military, he had expected someone who would treat him as part of the decor, like a table or a lamp. Jack wasn't expecting someone who would insist that his bodyguards eat their meals with him, rather than take shifts to eat at the mess hall.

 

"It doesn't make sense, Mr. Salazar," Mr. Crane had said over steak and fresh greens. He said it wasn't  _efficient._

 

Jack liked him.

 

The army guy (even though he wore a suit sometimes, the posture gave it away) wasn't so bad. Randall took a while to defrost and pull the stick out of his ass, but he was okay. Getting him to talk about himself at all was like pulling teeth, but he wasn't half bad at poker. (Mr. Crane had been given pretty big quarters, considering that this was a military war ship, so Jack and Randall played on the table close to the door while Mr. Crane fiddled around on his laptop, his service dog at his feet.)

 

It surprised Jack that he and Randall were under similar circumstances. They'd both had a youthful incident go wrong, with joining the military offered as an alternative to jail time. 

 

"I got into a bar fight, and there was an accident," Jack had said one night over dinner (shrimp this time, in some fancy white sauce Jack couldn't pronounce if he tried).

 

Randall's eyes darted to Mr. Crane, who was sitting across the room working on his computer (Randall would _insist_ that Mr. Crane eat in about 30 minutes, Jack knew) before replying. It had been surprising to Jack when he noticed how much Randall valued Mr. Crane's regard, but there was no denying the way he soaked up approval like a sponge, whether it was because of something like a particularly complicated trick he'd managed to teach the dog, or saving someone from falling overboard that one time.

 

"It was a bar fight too, although I can't say that the other guy threw the first punch..." Randall trailed off, looking uncomfortable. Jack didn't want him clamming up again (It was boring to keep guard without someone to talk to) so Jack changed the subject. 

 

"So how much time you got left? My contract's up in three months, and I'm still thinking about whether to re-enlist or not." Jack said lightly.

 

But if anything, Randall looked even more uncomfortable.

 

"I guess I'll just stay where I am, after I'm done serving as Mr. Crane's guard." Randall sounded completely bummed about it.

 

Jack had met some guys like that, who didn't have any direction aside from the one the Navy provided. Some of them were happy, some weren't, but Randall didn't seem like that kind of guy to Jack. Randall's insignia said sergeant, but he carried himself like a general sometimes. Even Jack snapped to attention when he requested things for Mr. Crane, like an extra chair in the captain's waiting area for when Mr. Crane's bum leg was acting up.

 

"Bear needs to go out," Mr. Crane said from across the room, finally looking up from his computer. Jack wondered if he'd heard a word he or Randall had said. Probably not, considering how absorbed Mr. Crane could get in his work. Jack was pretty sure he wouldn't eat for days at a time without someone to remind him.

 

"I'll do it. Bear,  _volgen._ " Randall looked relieved to get away. Jack wondered at that. 

 

"Do you like being in the Navy, Mr. Salazar?" Mr. Crane asked after a few minutes had gone by and Randall hadn't returned. "If you don't mind my asking, of course."

 

Jack looked up from his game of solitaire in suprise. So Mr. Crane  _had_ been listening. Not that Jack minded, he and Randall hadn't exactly been whispering; Mr. Crane was welcome to join the conversation any time he pleased.

 

"The Navy's been good to me, but I'm not sure if I'm cut out for it." Jack replied honestly. 

 

"How so?" Mr. Crane sounded genuinely curious.

 

"Well," Jack scratched the back of his head, wondering how much Mr. Crane knew about the Navy, or the military in general. Surely not a lot, if he never thought to question the fact that Randall was still a sergeant despite having been in service for more than 10 years while appearing to be extremely competent at his job. (Now that Jack thought about it, it  _was_ weird.)

 

"I don't really have a family to support so the shit pay isn't the main problem..." 

 

Mr. Crane's mouth pulled to the side, and Jack wondered belatedly if he should curse in front of someone who could get him dismissed (not that Jack thought he would).

 

"I guess I just don't see myself as an old guy and still in the Navy." ' _Yeah, let's go with that.'_

 

Mr. Crane started typing again after that, so Jack guessed that meant he was free to return to his game of solitaire. But he couldn't concentrate, the thought heavy in his mind. Where would he go, if he left the Navy? 

 

\---

 

A few weeks later, the ship was anchored maybe a mile or two from the coastline. From the shores of Iran, they'd gone south around Capetown and then back up north to Nigeria. They were close to the end of their journey when Mr. Crane somehow slipped away from his guards.

How he managed to do that, Jack didn't know, but they were on a _ship_. Where could he possibly go? Jack guessed that he probably just wanted some time to himself to jack off or something. Being on a ship did not give a guy a lot of privacy, and Mr. Crane had even less with two bodyguards constantly hanging around.

Mr. Crane did this, like, once a week, just reappearing in his quarters like magic after Jack and Randall had searched the ship from bow to stern. Today, Mr. Crane hadn't even been missing for an hour, and Randall already looked like he was having an aneurism. Jack wanted to tell him to chill the fuck out, but he kept the thought to himself.

Jack sighed. Having spent weeks in their presence, he knew what was up. He'd seen this before, CPOs who fell for the person they were protecting. But it didn't really matter to Jack how much Randall worshiped the ground Mr. Crane walked on; Jack decided that, despite being a good guy, Mr. Crane was an absolute nightmare to guard.

 

"He do this a lot back in Iraq?" Jack asked. Randall ignored him, so Jack figured that meant yes.

 

\---

 

By the second hour, Randall looked ready to tear the ship apart. Jack thought it was funny (if annoying) at first, but he was worried now. There were a bunch of places in and on the ship where someone who needed a cane to walk around could fall and hurt themselves, where no one could hear someone calling for help.

By the third hour, Jack had no choice but to inform his superiors that Mr. Crane was missing, which they summarily waved off as inconsequential. He'd turn up eventually, they said.

Randall, on the other hand, was convinced that Mr. Crane had somehow left the ship, and wanted to commandeer a small vessel to take him to shore. It was a testament to how wealthy Mr. Crane was, and how much the military wanted this deal to go through, that the brass didn't want to risk pissing off even Mr. Crane's bodyguard (when the cost of keeping him happy was just a boat), so they allowed it, under Jack's supervision and with strict orders to return by tomorrow.

The brass obviously thought that the two of them would return empty handed the next day to find that Mr. Crane had been napping somewhere, and their certainty was contagious. Jack turned to Randall.

 

"How sure are you that Mr. Crane is in danger?" Jack asked.

 

"It takes me less than thirty minutes to find him in the middle of a war zone," Randall said, "If it'll take longer, he let's me know, or has me come with him." Bear whined from his place at their feet.

 

Randall's voice was deadly serious, and Jack felt unease settle at the base of his neck.

 

\---

 

Jack didn't know what he was more surprised by, the fact that Mr. Crane had, in fact, left the ship without being noticed, or the ease with which Randall found his current location.

 

"We should report back," Jack said worriedly, when Randall didn't start walking towards their boat after some local thugs had shared (involuntarily) that the bigger thugs in the area had acquired something _valuable_.

 

Randall ignored him, continuing to walk back to their vehicle, with a trail of bodies groaning in the noonday sun behind him. Jack had gotten into enough bar fights with enough groundpounders to know that, whatever else the army did, they didn't normally teach their soldiers how to do  _that_.

Their suspiciously obtained SUV (filled with Randall's 'personal items') was nearby, being guarded by Bear. Jack was completely not surprised to find that Randall's 'personal items' were mostly weapons and more weapons.

 

"He's being held _captive_. By _pirates_." Jack emphasized. That part needed emphasis, because it was the part that made attempting a rescue by themselves completely _insane_.

 

"You don't have to do anything," Randall said as he continued to arm himself with the weapons that Jack thought he was crazy for bringing along, "But by the time you get back, it'll be over."

 

Something about the look on Randall's face convinced Jack to start strapping on a bullet proof vest himself. He didn't know much about Mr. Crane, but Jack thought he was a good guy. If Randall needed help getting Mr. Crane back, he was going to get it.

 

\---

 

Randall made a few hushed phone calls out of earshot while Jack outfitted Bear with his own doggie vest, and then they drove into a small compound outside the city. Literally, Randall drove the SUV into it, crashing right through the closed gates. Before they'd stopped moving, Randall was out of the vehicle, faster than Jack thought possible. With Bear in the lead, and Randall close behind him (to keep the dog tracking Mr. Crane's scent safe), Jack fell back to cover them from the rear.

Jack had never seen combat before, not up close. All recruits went through basic firearms training, and Jack was considered a pretty good shot, but Randall was dropping people like flies, leaving them clutching both knees in agony. Jack would have felt sorry for them, but from the information Randall had gathered, he knew that these men didn't just deal with stolen goods; they were human traffickers.

 

"What's the plan, Randall?" Jack shot at the hand of a guy who didn't have the good sense to stay down. He missed, but the guy dropped his gun and didn't pick it back up again.

 

"Find Mr. Crane and bring him back safely."

 

"Short and sweet," Jack smiled grimly as he shot at the knees of a guy Randall hadn't seen. Jack missed, hit thigh instead. "I like it."

 

\---

 

They found Mr. Crane in a dark bathroom so small that Randall and Jack couldn't both be inside at the same time. Not that Jack wanted to go in. It smelled like old piss and sweat, and Jack was surprised to find that he was mildly distressed at the idea of Mr. Crane, with his neatly folded handkerchiefs and carefully polished shoes, being forced to spend an extended amount of time in there.

 

 _'Of course, he's lucky to be alive.'_ Jack thought. They weren't out of the woods yet, but with Mr. Crane in their possession, questions like  _'What was he doing off the ship?'_ were starting to make themselves known.

 

Jack kept a look out from the outside with Bear, but caught a glimpse of Mr. Crane inside. He had been divested of anything even remotely valuable. It was bit disconcerting to see him in just a pair of boxers and a shirt, with no bespoke suit like armor. Even his glasses were gone, leaving his face looking strange and naked. Jack looked away.

 

"Mr. Crane, are you hurt?" Randall asked, even as he checked Mr. Crane over.

 

"Mr. Randall," the relief was plain in Mr. Crane's voice, "I'm very glad to see you." A pause, and Jack could practically hear Mr. Crane squinting.

 

"Mr. Salazar, is that you?"

 

Jack smiled and waved.

 

\---

 

When they got back to the ship, it was in an uproar. A ransom demand had made its way to the ship and some big shot at Mr. Crane's company had gotten wind of it. He had threatened to sue _everyone_ if _his employee_ was not retrieved _at once_.

As soon as the three of them had arrived, Mr. Crane had been herded away from his two bodyguards. He looked smaller than usual beneath Randall's coat. Jack was sure that Randall would have insisted on following (Jack probably would have too), had Mr. Crane not gestured for them to stay behind.

Once Mr. Crane was out of their sight and the two bodyguards were left to themselves, Jack turned to Randall.

 

"You're not Army, are you." it wasn't really a question.

 

"I was, once," Randall replied, eyes still trained on the door Mr. Crane had been ushered through.

 

Jack snorted and left it at that.

 

\---

 

In the end, it was agreed that Mr. Crane would be silent on the matter of being kidnapped while under Navy and Army guard, if they honorably discharged and gave to him (as bodyguards) the soldiers who had saved his life, (and not to mention, had taken down one of kingpin Muntari Hamidu's bases singlehandedly).

It was perfect for Jack. He had enlisted as part of a sentence, a bar fight gone bad, and with his tour almost up, he had been looking for a new direction. A gig being bodyguard was perfect. He agreed almost immediately.

Jack was surprised to hear Randall object.

The three of them were back in Mr. Crane's quarters, ostensibly to with orders to guard Mr. Crane while he rested from his ordeal, but really it was to keep him away from anyone who might want to ask him about what had transpired. The brass shouldn't have bothered. Jack would never have guessed that Mr. Crane had been kidnapped hours before, based on his demeanor. He appeared as he always did, impeccably dressed once again, with Bear the service dog resting quietly at his feet.

 

"I can't, Mr. Crane," Randall was saying. It sounded like it physically pained him to say the words.

 

"You've just saved my life, Mr. Randall. Please, call me Harold," Mr. Crane said. He turned briefly to Jack ("You too, Mr. Salazar") before turning his attention back to Randall.

 

"Honestly, I've wanted to ask you to do so for some time, Mr. Randall, but our circumstances seemed to require that there be some professional distance? That is to say, while I consider you to be a very good friend, too much casual regard on either of our parts might have been misconstrued, and I could not afford the risk that you be transferred to another asset by the CIA until I had all the pieces in my hands. Now that I have my silence on this matter as a bargaining chip, I believe that--"

 

"Harold," Randall interrupted. Jack thought it was just as well, because Mr. Crane hadn't taken a breath the entire time he was talking, and Jack had been starting to fear that he was going to pass out.

 

 "You knew," Randall said, haltingly, "That I'm not, that I was--"

 

"Operating under Agent Snow?" Mr. Crane asked, cool as a cucumber. They both darted a glance at Jack, who wondered if he should even be here right now. But, if he was about to get into something that was way over his head, he thought he should know now, so he stayed his ground.

 

Also, holy fuck, the CIA? 

 

"Mr. Randall," Mr. Crane began, speaking to Jack "has not been completely forthcoming about his previous employment record. Nonetheless, I feel that he would be better suited working for me."

 

Mr. Crane turned back to Randall.

 

"If you're open to it, Mr. Randall, this incident gives me the leverage I need to get you out of your cover in the Army. As to the matter of Agent Snow," Mr. Crane said, "that is a bridge we'll cross when we come to it. The Agency's hands are tied right now; they can't withhold you without revealing that they were conducting illegal surveillance. Not just on a private American civillian business man, but an employee of IFT."

 

He said the last part like it meant something, and Jack told himself to look up that company later.

 

"I can't promise that the work will be any safer than what you, both of you, did today," Mr. Crane said quietly. "But I--"

 

"Yes." Randall interrupted, sounding suspiciously more hoarse than usual. "Yes, Harold, I'd like to work for you, full-time."

 

"Excellent," Mr. Crane said. He turned his laptop back on and sat down in front of it. "We have much to discuss tomorrow. I have some business to conclude here in Nigeria, but after that we'll be off. After today, I'm sure no one would object if we flew the rest of the way."

 

 

\---Bonus---

 

  
The room was dark. It was night time and John was on a bed in the room next to Cra-- _Harold's_ , with Salazar on shift outside his door.

John repeated the name to himself. Harold. _Harold_.  
  
He rolled over in his bunk, wondering how to get Mark to let him go. What was Mark's price? What would it cost Crane (Harold, _Harold_ ) to get him out of the CIA, if getting kidnapped was the price of getting John out of the Army? How had Harold _known_ that John wasn't Army? Was the Agency even more compromised than John had thought?

But even as he wondered, John knew that, whatever price Mark asked, it wouldn't matter. Not to him. Through sheer luck, John now had a chance to do some good in the world, at the side of the best man he knew.

He'd have to thank Mark someday, for assigning him to Harold. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is Jack Salazar, from S03E01. I always liked him, and I needed another bodyguard for Harold. I also want Shaw to make an appearance at some point, but I'm still trying to figure put how to do it. In the meantime, please welcome Jack Salazar to Team Machine! 
> 
> If anyone has suggestions as to how Shaw becomes involved, I sure would love to read them. :D
> 
> P.S. I can't help it, I want Mark to be a good guy.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forward in time again, a few weeks later. Takes place before Chapter 3 (Fusco Gets Out of Prison)

 

 

In front of John sat Nathan Ingram, co-owner of IFT. It was a company that could buy Exxon Mobil, Apple, AND Wells Fargo if so inclined, and John was... surprised, to say the least. When Harold had told John and Jack that he wanted them to meet a very good friend, John had expected someone like Arthur Claypool, an old classmate. Perhaps Grace Hendricks, a former girlfriend with whom Harold kept in touch. Definitely not Nathan Ingram, notorious eccentric multi-billionaire.  
  
When the CIA had assigned Harold to their team, Snow had looked into him thoroughly, which meant John knew exactly who Harold was on paper. Harold Crane was the archetype for middle management. An investor, a graduate of MIT, as well as a philanthropist involved in various humanitarian efforts, spearheading reconstruction projects in Fallujah, Baghdad, and Kabul... Harold Crane was an extremely wealthy saint, basically.

  
  
"I'm a very private person, Mr. Randall," Mr. Crane had once told him back in Tekrit, after John had asked him where he went when he disappeared. John had wondered then, if he should’ve felt guilty that the CIA had already told him exactly everything about Harold, when in return, the man didn’t even know John’s real name.

  
  
As it turned out, though, the CIA hadn't told John everything after all, because here John was, having a private meeting with Nathan Ingram while Harold left to do god knows what (at least he'd taken Jack with him this time, at John's insistence). John was having a private meeting with multi-billionaire Nathan Ingram, who was offering him a... job?

  
  
"Most people don’t know him--they don’t notice him--and it’s worked out well ‘til now," Ingram was saying, drawn-out drawl of a Texas accent elongating his words, "But it might be impossible for him to remain anonymous as IFT's other owner, and I need someone I can trust by his side at all times."

  
  
Ingram went on, describing Harold’s work and how much good John would be doing. Salary, benefits. It wouldn’t be so hard, Ingram insisted, because Harold lived a pretty low profile life back in New York.

 

( _'You must not know what he does outside of New York,'_ John thought smugly.)

 

Ingram went on to say "Harold doesn't even have a car, he commutes or takes a cab everywhere.", which made John stiffen in his seat.

 

Outwardly, he kept listening, but inside, John was reeling. He didn't even want to know how long Harold had been a multi-billionaire ( _billionaire_ , not millionaire) and still walking around and taking the subway like he wouldn't a prime target for muggers, with his clothes that screamed quality and a limp that made him an even easier looking target; John suspected the answer would give him an aneurysm.

 

Ingram was finally winding down, naming a salary for John that rivaled most Wall Street executives’, and John felt the corner of his mouth twitch at the idea. He would have guarded Harold for free, would have paid in blood to do it. But, knowing what he did now, the CIA…

 

The other man seemed to sense his hesitation, because Ingram leaned forward and said, “How about this, just keep an eye on him, yeah? Everythin’ will sort itself out.” Ingram paused, "Even with the CIA."

 

He leaned back into his chair, and John could feel his eye wanting to twitch. He expected a plan, something more than platitudes from--

 

Something moved in his peripheral vision, and John turned his head, tensing. Someone was entering the room. John was halfway out of his chair, hand on his gun, before he got a good look at the guy and recognition dawned.

Hersch was something of a legend in the CIA. He could handle missions designed for three operatives alone, but had retired early. Actually retired, not disappeared. No one had known why. Well, here he was. Apparently, being CPO to billionaires appealed to him more than serving his country. John could relate, but probably for very different reasons.

Hersch closed the door behind himself before nodding to John, and then to Ingram. John watched them, and clearly some communication passed between the two men, because Ingram got up to leave at that point, not waiting for a reply from John.

 

“I have a feeling we’ll be seeing more of each other. Harold can take handle himself, but a little help now and then never hurt.”

 

As he was leaving, Ingram's demeanor seemed to change. He turned back to John and smiled, baring more teeth than John thought was strictly necessary.

 

"Take care of him, Randall."

 

 

 ---

 

"You _what._ " Harold was turning an alarming shade of red. He was keeping his voice level, Nathan had to give him credit for that, but even Harold couldn't control his capillaries and, right now, the word _tomato_ was coming to mind.

 

Nathan just laughed in his friend's face.

 

The two of them were alone, the room secured from outside by their respective bodyguards. Only the office supplies and furniture were witness, and Harold was glad for the privacy of Nathan's study as his dear, (soon-to-be-ex) friend laughed at his distress.

 

It had been a few days since Harold had left John in Nathan's company to attend to some private matters. It was one of those rare times when his and Nathan's schedules intersected organically, and Harold had wanted Nathan to meet his new bodyguards. It was really only at Mr. Randall's insistence that Harold had allowed Mr. Salazar to accompany him instead of leaving them both behind.

 

Harold recalled, quite vividly, Nathan's reaction when he'd told his friend between status reports of the new hospital in Kabul that, _hey, remember that agent the CIA had assigned to watch him? Well, he's my bodyguard now, along with a wet-behind-the-ears sailor Will's age_ .

 

On one level, Harold understood why Nathan had told Mr. Randall (and no doubt he had in turn told Mr. Salazar by now) that Harold was very wealthy. Not only was Nathan getting Harold back for his little surprise, it was important that both Mr. Randall and Mr. Salazar knew what their job entailed in more detail. They needed information to do their jobs effectively, and that included knowing that, technically, Harold co-owned IFT.

He had been planning on telling them himself in a few days, that itself wasn't the problem, no...

 

"Did you really threaten him, Nathan?" Harold asked, just to be sure.

 

"I even had Hersch come in, for effect," Was the gleeful reply.

 

Harold covered his face with his hands and groaned.

 

"You see, it's not that I object to getting talent from the CIA," Nathan wasn't done, so Harold removed his hands to be polite, "but I'm _hurt_ , Harold. I've been trying to get you a bodyguard for _years._ "

 

Out of nowhere, an irrational part of Harold wanted to contradict Nathan, tell him that Mr. Randall wasn't _just_ _a bodyguard_ (and Harold refused to examine why the sentiment didn't include Mr. Salazar), but he wisely kept his mouth shut.

 

Nathan just looked at him smugly, like he was privy to a secret that Harold was unaware of, and Harold wondered why they were still friends.

 

They both calmed down a bit after that, and spent the rest of their limited time together in companionable silence, drinking fine scotch. Their lives were truly hectic, and they both knew it would be weeks before they saw each other in person again.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, many thanks to x_talon_x, who helped me with this chapter!
> 
> This was actually one of the first chapters I wrote for this story, but even though I said there was no particular order to the chapters (and there still isn't), I wanted people to read the transition from 'Mr. Crane' to 'Harold' in John's head. :P
> 
> P.S. I know a few weeks doesn't seem like such a long time, but I think it's important to know that they used to spend every day together, so they are quick to miss each other even though they speak online.
> 
> P.P.S. My headcanon is that Nathan is really good at reading people, like Root was in early season 2, but more benign and goofy. He's totally reading Harold's and John's faces, and he's probably already planning his speech at the wedding or something.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set after John meets Nathan, but before John meets Nathan's Family (yes, John will meet Will and Olivia.)
> 
> Potentially triggering things in this chapter: sickness, i guess? and some leftover trauma from being kidnapped. As usual, nothing graphic.

 

 

John Randall considered himself a good bodyguard. The CIA hadn't used him in that capacity very often, but every time they did, it had been a success. John hadn't had an asset die under his watch yet, and he'd be _damned_ if Harold Crane was going to be the first.

 

"You're overreacting," came Harold's voice from the hospital bed.

 

John ignored him, continuing to stand at attention. Jack Salazar, Harold's other CPO, was standing guard outside the door. There wasn't a lot of risk here, an upscale hospital in Bangkok's central business district, but John wasn't taking any chances. It was due to this caution (an overabundance of it, Harold had made himself very clear) that John had insisted that they visit the hospital. 

It had been John who had noticed something... off about Harold's movements the day before. And John who insisted that Harold have some tests run. The bodyguard knew what Harold's body was capable of, had spent more time watching the other man than was probably strictly appropriate. But it was due to this close observation that John knew what a 2 on the pain scale looked like (a 5 for anyone else, but a good day for Harold). 

 

"I'm only a bit tired," John's recalcitrant charge insisted. But it was to no avail. John had pulled rank, so Harold was getting tested, and that was that.

 

 

\---

 

 

"You have dengue fever, Mr. Crane." The doctor announced, looking up from the chart.

 

Harold held in a sigh. He could _feel_ Mr. Randall stiffen up at his bedside, his spine becoming almost comically straight.

 

"We caught it early, and you should be fine after resting for a couple of weeks." The doctor went on, holding out a prescription for Harold that Mr. Randall smoothly intercepted.

 

_Rude._

 

The doctor was momentarily confused, then redirected attention to John.

 

"Make sure he gets some rest and drinks plenty of fluids. Don't let him take any blood thinners. The fever will start in a few days, maybe tomorrow. If he starts feeling nauseated, vomiting, or he can't eat after the fever breaks, you bring Mr. Crane back here, all right?"

 

John nodded gravely, his expression as serious as the plague. This time, Harold didn't bother holding in his sigh.

 

 

\---

 

 

Aside from technological solutions to the world's problems, IFT had started pursuing medical solutions as well. To wit, IFT bought Virtanen Industries, after its stock had tanked due to a scandal involving previous management.

One of Harold's temporary duties to the struggling company involved the release of a vaccine in tropical and subtropical areas. A leftover project from the old management, Ingram had kept it, because it had looked promising. Mere weeks after that decision, a clerical error had almost resulted in the vaccine being improperly administered to an entire country's youth population.

 

"It's supposed to be administered only _after_ the child has been infected and recovered from the virus, you see." Harold explained on the plane to Thailand. "Each incidence of infection with the virus poses greater risk of death or injury to the patient, so the vaccine really is useful..."

 

"It's just not for everyone," Salazar responded.

 

John kept quiet, listening. His personal opinion on the matter was that this excursion wasn't the result of a clerical error. Someone high up the chain in Virtanen had been trying to boost end of quarter sales, at the cost of children's lives. Not too surprising.

He also thought that Harold didn't have to handle this in person. Surely an email or a phone call would have sufficed? But here they were, on a public airplane John hadn't even been able to search thoroughly. 

At least Salazar was happy. Despite frequent trips on Harold's private plane, he was excited, because he'd never flown on first class before.

 

 

\---

 

 

"Don't be too hard on yourself, buddy." Jack said as he sat. "Not even you could have protected the boss from a fly."

 

"A mosquito," Harold called weakly from the bed.

 

From his place beside Jack on the suite's living room couch, a muscle ticked on Randall's jaw. Jack had been with the two of them long enough to know that this meant the older man was unhappy. Probably because Mr. Crane was being persnickety (a word Jack had learned from the man himself).

A persnickety Crane could mean a lot of things, but right now it probably meant he wasn't feeling too good. And from what the doctor had said, it would get worse before it got better.

 

As soon as the doctor had given them the go ahead, Randall had booked a nearby hotel room (as well as the rest of the rooms in that hallway) and sequestered Mr. Crane inside. The boss was only allowed to get up if it involved the bathroom. Randall even rationed his laptop time.

 

(If Jack thought that the other CPO was taking some satisfaction from being a complete dictator, and that the boss didn't have to play along but was doing so anyway, well, he kept that to himself.)

 

"I'm sure he's going to be fine. That's what the doctor said, yeah?" Jack patted Randall on the shoulder before getting up to walk Bear.

 

 

\---

 

 

 _'The thing about going on-premises to deliver a solution,'_ Harold decided, _'W_ _as that you always left with more problems than you had when you came in.'_

 

The trip was only meant to be a quick one. Harold's presence was more of a nod to what might have happened, not because there was any need. But once there, it was impossible for him not to notice that they was no integrated national system for keeping track of health services.

He could set up the beginnings of it in the capital city, and send for reinforcements from IFT to continue once he'd laid down the groundwork, but even just this would take him a couple of weeks.

It was monsoon season, too. In a tropical country where some government buildings had no air conditioning; Harold worried for the welfare of his suits.

To let in the cool night air, he opened a window. Below him was a fountain that had long since stopped functioning, still waters reflecting the light from the window.

 

 

\---

 

 

By the fifth day, even Jack was feeling the stress, all levity from the situation gone. Mr. Crane had gone from persnickety to snippy, then finally silent, but for a few groans of discomfort. It was terrifying. Between the three of them, he provided the most conversation. Mr. Crane would talk about anything and everything, managing to make things like Pi and hotels seem interesting. 

Some days, Jack thought that he had missed a calling as a teacher.

Today, Jack just wished he'd get better.

 

Randall was starting looking a bit crazy around the eyes. He'd hardly left Mr. Crane's side, only doing so to go to the bathroom. 

Even Bear wasn't immune to the atmosphere, spending most of his time at the foot of Mr. Crane's bed. Jack would take him to a nearby park to do his business and to stretch, but the dog would get antsy before long, eager to return to his master.

 

 

\---

 

 

Eventually, Randall called for professional medical help. The best nurses and caregivers money could buy, and all the equipment they might think they might need. The hotel had allowed it, which Jack thought was surprising.

But maybe not.

It wasn't a big hotel, wasn't one of the international chains. The charmingly named Nesting Ground had simply contacted the owner and obtained his permission to turn the corner suit into a temporary hospital room.

 

Randall called the the nurses and such on the eighth day, and they didn't even make it to the ninth. Jack understood why. Even from outside the bedroom, in the suite's living room, he could hear the sounds of distress Mr. Crane made whenever the medical staff touched him. He could only imagine how much worse it was for Randall, who remained in the room as everything was done, and was in love with their charge besides.

By the end of the day, Randall had paid them in full, the whole two weeks, and told them not to come back. Before they left, he asked them to explain, in detail, what had to be done.

 

 

\---

 

 

The bedroom had remained mostly silent after that. Having been informed of the sick person occupying the corner suite (and paying the hotel an exorbitant amount of money to do so), the kitchen staff began sending up trays of food for all of them, even Bear.

No doubt they were hoping for an equally exorbitant tip, but Jack thought that was nice of them nonetheless.

Jack's duties had basically been reduced to checking the perimeter (unobtrusively, as if he were merely stretching his legs), and taking care of Bear. Randall would periodically come out for a bite to eat with Jack, talk for a bit, but would return to Mr. Crane's side before long.

 

 

\---

 

 

It was day seventeen when Mr. Crane was considered well enough for Bear and Jack's company. A smiling Randall exited the bedroom and told Jack to keep the boss company while he went downstairs to ask the kitchen staff for some eggs benedict.

 

Jack didn’t even know what that was, but he was happy to see that Mr. Crane was eating solid foods again. He was also happy to see Randall at ease for the first time in weeks. Smiling made him look way younger.

 

Mr. Crane looked better, too. He'd lost some weight, but he was definitely in better health. Jack knew because he had made the mistake of walking into the bedroom a few days ago, only to see Randall wiping down Mr. Crane's limp, almost lifeless form.

 

It had been jarring. The boss had been wearing a thin shirt, more than what the pirates had left him with, but Jack hadn't walked in without knocking again. 

 

"It's good to have you back, Mr. Crane."

 

"It's good to be back, Mr. Salazar."

 

 

\---

 

 

Nathan flew out to see Harold before he was completely better. Harold thought it was completely unnecessary, but he appreciated it all the same. And understood the impulse. Harold's perception of time and, well, _everything_ had been compromised while he was sick, so it felt like he'd only seen Nathan days ago, not weeks. But Harold knew that such a long period of radio silence had worried his friend very much. 

 

Nathan's presence, as well as the veritable army of IFT employees he'd brought, made short work of the system Harold was building. Before long, Harold was free to return to the United States, which he did. One day, he thought he might return with Mr. Randall and Mr. Salazar. To see some of the sights, absorb some of the culture. Not right now, but maybe someday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is kind of a filler chapter? Harold goes to Southeast Asia, gets dengue. A not-fun time is had by all, but Rinch whump is delicious, and there is always room for more of it.
> 
> If anyone is curious, I'm basing the events in the fic on a real life thing that happened here in the Philippines. Dengvaxia was improperly used / released / administered, and now the anti-vax people are coming out of the woodwork. :P
> 
> If anyone reading this is in a tropical country, keep safe! :D don't let water stagnate, and always have mosquito-repellent on if you are outside during sunrise and sunset.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I would love some feedback and suggestions. Please feel free to leave a prompt, but I can't guarantee that I'll write it.
> 
> Also, I don't have a beta reader, so please feel free to help me out with the grammar and stuff.


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